We see a billboard for a Ramada Inn in Ely, and since it is dark already, I call ahead on my cell phone and try to get rooms. The woman at the Ramada says she has rooms available, but they are on the second floor of the “annex” and we’ll have to carry our bags across the street from the parking lot. And there’s no elevator.
Well, we travel heavy, and bring most of the equipment into our rooms every night: the camera, tripod, batteries (heavy), monitor, the sound gear. And we all have our personal suitcases, so there are lots of bags. We need an elevator if we’re not on the first floor.
“Well,” I say to Ms. Ramada, “if we don’t stay at your place. where else should we stay?”
“The jailhouse,” she says.
“That’s funny,” I say.
“No,” she laughs. “It’s a motel and casino. If I weren’t staying here, I’d go there. They have good clean rooms.” She gave me the number.
The Jailhouse turns out to be ideal. It’s a one-story drive-up-to-the-door sort of motel, the most convenient kind for us, and we get our gear in quickly. It’s already almost nine o’clock, and the general consensus seems to be: no formal dinner tonight. If you want to eat, you’re on your own. I might turn in early. Bob and Jarrett go to their rooms.
When I get my computer out in the room, plug in my camera, my cell phone and think about writing this blog, I decide this is foolish. Get out and see some of Ely! Hell, the Hotel Nevada, an old casino and hotel, is right across the street from the Jailhouse, and the folks at the Jailhouse desk said the hotel restaurant stays open all night. I find a Lincoln Highway book that I haven’t cracked yet (I bought several back at the second National Headquarters back in Illinois) and I head over there.
The streets of the town are deserted. There’s one place called Mr.G’s with someone inside singing. And the big Hotel Nevada cowboy and adjacent neon signs are keeping things bright.
The Hotel Nevada is a place with very interesting energy. It’s got a little history. Built in 1929, it was then the tallest building in Nevada at 6 stories. It was the place where the young Wayne Newton got his start, and it’s got a goofy little walk of fame out front honoring people like Ingrid Bergman, LBJ, Pat Nixon (!), poker prince Benny Binion, and Stephen King, among others, all of whom have stayed at this hotel at one time or another. It’s got a comfortably cluttered look, lots of animals preserved through taxidermy, hunting prizes, historic souvenirs (even an old metal Lincoln Highway sign with bullet holes through it) and, of course, scads of slot machines. It’s a relief. It doesn’t feel like Vegas at all in spite of the flashing lights and dinging machines. It’s not slick. It’s sort of homespun. It feels like a small town version of a gambling den.
I get a good hamburger in the casino restaurant. I read my book and chat with the waitress. It’s really relaxing.
As I start back toward the Jailhouse, I’m not tempted by the slot machines. I’ve never understood their allure. Computer games can captivate and charm me, but silly slots (so many with child-like themes) don’t call to me at all. I notice some free brochures in a rack on one wall, and I’m checking them out when I hear a voice beside me. “Hey, Big Guy. What’re you looking for?’
It’s Bob the jokester. He says he watched some of our tapes and then decided to walk over here.
“I like this place,” I say.
“Aw, it’s all machines,” says Bob. “I like card games.”
“Oh, I saw a sign,” I say. “It said Poker & Card Games in basement.” We look around, can’t find a down staircase, but Bob discovers the elevator and we ride down. There is a table with about 8 older guys sitting around playing poker. A few look up as we walk in. Bob says, “Hey, here’s a blackjack table. $2 minimum. That’s perfect.”
I’ve never played blackjack before, but I’ve heard some of Bob’s stories over the years, and I have a vague notion that the cards have to add up to 21, but that’s about it. Bob was in the service and knows how to do all these things. There are two dealers just hanging out at the table, no other players, so we sit down.
We each get $20 in chips, and the woman dealing quickly sees what a dufus I am, but she’s got a sense of humor too, and my mother has always said that I have the luck of the Irish, so I don’t go down in flames simply because I get good cards. We work our way through the six-deck stack of cards. I don’t know what the dealer means when she asks, “Insurance?” And sometimes Bob doubles his bet. I’m not getting the basics yet.
Soon, another dealer comes to relieve our lady with all the cards. This new guy is more gregarious and willing to teach me stuff. Bob’s and my fortunes rise and fall. He loses his $20 first, but I’m pretty flush at that point, and I pass him two $5 chips, and he eventually builds an empire of chips with that. We laugh a lot. Win and lose.
The woman dealer comes back from her break. By 11:30 Bob and I are both fading fast, and we both starting betting the farm. When I lose my last chips, Bob hands two $5 chips back to me. He’s been betting well, counts his chips, finds enough to cover his initial investment plus $10, and plays the rest on what looks like a good hand. Pow, it’s gone. He dives the lady dealer a $5 tip and he leaves $5 richer than he came in. I’m down $20, but it’s been a totally fun hour or two. (I actually have no idea how long we were there.) Gambling at this level could interest me. Silly and more social than anything else. A great time. Bob says it was one of the best times he’s ever had gambling too. Absolutely no pressure. Lots of table talk.
On our way back to the Jailhouse, Bob says, “You know, they never once offered us a drink. That’s odd. Usually they do.” But Bob admits gambling is different and in some ways better here. We wonder if this is what Vegas might have been like in the 1940s.
Ely is a surprisingly fine small town.